Seven
W ILDER HUNCHED IN the big leather chair as the cheerful sounds of Thanksgiving preparations hummed throughout Sawyer’s cabin. Quinn hadn’t arrived and already his stomach muscles clenched. It wasn’t just her gorgeous face or that infectious laugh that set him on edge. No, it was when she said, “No use crying over baked beans.” As soon as those words left her mouth,that one bad memory, long shoved into the “never think about again” mental file sprang front and center.
A dimly lit stall. The earthy, rich smell of hay. A small hand settling on the small of his back. “Why are you crying?”
No. Impossible. That couldn’t have been her.
He glanced at his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. Maybe she reconsidered coming. Then again, Archer hadjust mentioned that Kit, a second cousin and his youngest brother’s best friend, was giving her a ride out to the ranch.
Good for Kit and his two long strong legs and the SUV he could drive without any problem. What did Wilder care? He took another swig of beer. He didn’t.
Why are you crying?
He cleared his throat. Across the coffee table, Annie’s son, Atticus, making engine soundswith his mouth, drove Matchbox cars between the stacks of Astronomy Today and Vegan Life magazines. The kid kept sneaking a not-so-subtle stare at his legs.
Finally Wilder couldn’t bear it.
He didn’t feel like playing patty-cake at the moment. “Got something to say, pal?” He growled, leveling his best junkyard dog expression. “Spit it out why don’t you?”
But Atticus didn’t scamperoff; instead he took the question as an invitation and crawled over. “Is it true?” The kid’s eyes were wide. “That you’re a pirate?”
Wilder snorted. “What would make you say that?”
Atticus glanced around, making sure the coast was clear before leaning in and whispering, “Mama said you had a fake leg. I thought only pirates have wooden legs but you don’t have a patch.”
“Or a ship.”
The kid grinned. “Or a parrot.”
“Guess I’m not a pirate then.”
Atticus looked crestfallen for half a second before perking back up. “Can I see it?”
“My leg?”
“Yeah.”
Everyone was busy bustling around in the kitchen. Outside came the rhythmic thud of an axe as Sawyer chopped kindling. He’d just gotten in a few minutes ago but looked strained. Something must have happenedwith the fire.
Atticus waited patiently. He had the look of his mother about him, sweet, kind, and a little wild with all that natural trust. The two of them were so open, always hugging, saying “I love you.”
That wasn’t Grandma Kane’s way. She held court in the kitchen like a dowager queen bee, perched in a chair beside the oven, apparently willing to let Archer take over cooking theturkey but not without her eagle eye supervision, as if her mere presence would keep the meat from getting too dry.
“Time to baste again,” she announced.
Archer had been sneaking up on his fiancée, Edie, who was halfway through frosting a very large, very delicious-looking chocolate cake. “Grandma.” His youngest brother turned with a mock exasperated sigh. “I did that five minutes ago,and five minutes before that.”
“I don’t want a dried-out bird,” she barked.
Archer advanced on her slowly, arms outstretched like a zombie, groaning in the back of his throat.
“What are you doing, boy?” Unwilling amusement creeping into her voice.
“This. Is. My. Turkey.” He did a deep monster voice. “I. Hunted. The. Turkey. I. Am. Cooking. This. Turkey.”
“Are you out of yourever-loving mind?” Grandma yelped, warding him off with two hands.
He broke from zombie mode to duck and present his cheek before her puckered expression. “I am waaaaaaiting.”
“For what?”
“Don’t you have a kiss for the cook?”
Grandma laughed, once, short, and sharp before swallowing it back down. But she did give him a quick, frosty peck. “Good lord, I’ve said it once, but
Charles Tang, Gertrude Chandler Warner